Not Forgotten
by Allimelon
Summary: Not a Hustle story, but for anyone who enjoys the work of Robert Glenister, this fic continues the story of his character Terry Reid from the TV series "A Touch of Frost" as well as our earlier fics, "Heat" and "Bereft". Also, there is no FanFic category for Frost anyway.


Terry Reid stood at the window of the first floor flat above the second worst takeaway in Denton, looking out into the cold February night. To do so, he had to clear a patch in the condensation running down the glass, and when he'd done that, there really wasn't much to see. A souped-up Ford Focus went booming by, stereo cranked up to maximum. Some girls who Reid suspected were on the game passed below, one of them screaming abuse at the others in what would more than likely end up in a brawl, with the nightshift from Edmund Street turning out to break it up.

That thought prompted him to look over his shoulder at the room behind him and he went around, tidying up here and there. It was clean enough, if pretty spartan; life in the Army had left him with little care for interior décor. The kettle had just boiled fifteen minutes later when the expected rap came at his door.

"Evening, Tel!" Two grinning constables presented themselves, obviously hoping to be invited in for a cuppa. Resignedly, Reid stepped back and waved them in.

"Well, this is nice," remarked the older one conversationally as he accepted a mug of tea from his host.

"Lift those tarts outside, did you?" enquired Reid, sipping the brew.

The younger of the PCs answered. "Yeah. It's become a weekly fixture. One of them accuses the others of stealing her punters or her boyfriend or her cash, all hell breaks out, and someone calls us." A thought occurred to him. "It wasn't you, was it, Tel?"

Reid snorted indignantly. "I wouldn't waste your time or mine," he retorted. "All that happens is you haul 'em in, book 'em, they get done for breach of the peace or some other piddling charge, then get chucked back out on the streets again with a warning. Pointless."

"Isn't it, though," agreed the elder of the two. "Here, Terry, you going to the Valentine's dance at the Monty next week?"

"Seriously, Frank, do I look like the romantic type to you? Unless this is your subtle way of asking me out."

Both coppers roared with laughter at this, allowing Reid to usher them on their way, armed with a KitKat each. They gave him cheery waves as they made their way back down the stairs to the street, and Reid shook his head, smiling wanly as he closed the door after them. He looked about him and wished for the thousandth time that he had been more on the ball about the Barker case. If he had, he wouldn't be living in this dump on a suspended officer's half pay.

* * *

_The Blue Lotus Cantonese & Szechuan Cuisine had always seemed a bit of a mouthful to Reid, although not in the department where it actually mattered. He stood across the street from the restaurant and weighed up the set of keys in his hand. His gaze shifted from the antiquated 80s signage over the shop front to the flat above it. From the outside, it didn't look all that bad._

_He strolled over to the unassuming black door and inserted the mortice key. It took a bit of persuading, but finally the door opened – about three inches. Reid could see the foothills of what was apparently a mountain of mail denying him access to the place. A practiced shoulder charge fixed that, and he was wading through piles of pizza menus, credit card offers, and free newspapers to reach the bare wooden stairs that led to the flat proper. More stacks of junk mail adorned the edges of each tread, and he found himself wondering exactly how long this place had been unoccupied. Judging by the volume of detritus, it was probably the best part of a year, in which case the rental agency had been gilding the lily somewhat ("much sought after...view now while still available")._

_He wandered through the rooms, hardly noticing where he was now. His memory returned to the lounge of his old house in Bracken Hill, replaying a conversation with his superintendent that was to change his life completely._

_"__I'm sorry, Terry...you know I don't believe a word of it, but my hands are tied..."_

_"__I understand, sir."_

_Things hadn't got any better after that. Unable to afford the mortgage, he'd been forced to sell the house, and with the market on the slide he'd barely been able to break even. Back at the foot of the property ladder, there was no option but to rent. And in the poxiest part of Denton, too, because that was all he could presently afford._

* * *

Now he was doing the insomniac's nightshift again, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. An ironic smile twisted on his lips; just as well he and Louise had got divorced years ago, because if they hadn't this would have been the death of their marriage.

It was all Eric Hayden's doing, of that he was convinced. The drugs baron had "reached out", as the Americans would say, from whichever stone he was hiding under, and had Reid fitted up. After all, Reid himself had been on methadone and worse in the past – who was to say he still wasn't? – so he would naturally know the local suppliers. From there, it was just another small step to taking money from them to look the other way whilst they plied their vile trade around Denton. Thus ran the logic of the argument behind his fall from grace.

Reid had seen the looks of his fellow officers at the nick the day he had cleared his desk. Many incredulous, some dubious, one or two looking smug as if they'd always suspected, his own team defiantly staring down the doubters as they walked Reid out to his car in a show of solidarity. DC Tina Panjabi, with her propensity for minor violence, had contrived to batter the archive box she was carrying into one of the younger, more lairy PCs whom she overheard bad-mouthing her boss. For once, Reid hadn't the heart to tell her off – and anyway, he wasn't her boss any more.

He lay, hands linked behind his head, watching the beams of passing headlights move around his room. _I'll get you, Mr. Hayden_. _I will find you and I will break you in two. _How exactly he was going to manage this, minus the resources of the police service, he didn't know, but it had become his _raison d'être._ What else was there?

* * *

Time: 9:35 a.m., Tuesday

Location: Superintendent Craig Gardiner's office, Edmund Street police station

"I've been through it all several times, sir. The tip-off about DI Reid was anonymous, through Crimestoppers, plus there's the methadone that was found at his home. There's no paper trail as such, apart from the so-called 'witness' statements given by Ralston Shay and Courtney Milligan."

Superintendent Gardiner looked less than pleased. His fingers drummed on the desk, although he seemed unaware of it, and he stared over DS Adam Ferguson's right shoulder, as if at someone behind him. Ferguson almost looked round, but realised just in time that the guv'nor was simply gazing into space.

"And Shay and Milligan are still...'unavailable'?" asked Gardiner, eventually.

Ferguson grimaced. "Yes, sir. We've got warrants out for them, and uniform are keeping tabs on all the known junkie hang-outs, but no joy so far. Turned over both their flats, and SOCO are still picking their way through that evidence..."

"I heard they were both living in less than ideal circumstances."

"Cesspits, sir. They'd have been arrested for keeping animals like that. Not that they seemed to possess any documentation of their own, apart from utility bills and the like. I don't think either of them can read or write," surmised Ferguson. "They could barely sign their names at the end of their statements." He hesitated, trying to decide whether to continue with what he had planned to say. "Perhaps there's a connection to Eric Hayden." He waited for the super's reaction.

It took a moment for the name to register with Gardiner. "Hayden? The vet?" His eyes narrowed. "Have you been talking to Reid?"

"Not since he cleared his desk, sir," lied Ferguson expertly. "Why, does he think Hayden may have something to do with it too?"

Still suspicious, Gardiner leaned back in his chair and appeared to be weighing up whether to answer the question. Finally, he said, "What DI Reid does or does not think isn't something I can take into consideration at present. However, if you feel that you may have a potential line of enquiry, then by all means pursue it. But don't neglect your active cases; the felons of Denton haven't taken a holiday just because one of our officers has been suspended."

"Of course, sir," replied Ferguson, with rising hope. He stood to leave. "Was there anything else?"

"Oh...yes..." Gardiner shuffled some papers rather absent-mindedly. "Has anyone been sent to replace Wainwright yet?"

"I don't think so, sir. Are we definitely getting someone for him, then?"

"Oh, absolutely. His sick leave is long enough to justify it. I don't have the paperwork here..." - again he tried to find something on his desk - "but I'll forward you an e-mail I got from HR about it."

There was a knock on the door. "Yes, what is it?" Gardiner answered irritably.

His secretary stuck her head into the office. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but DS Wainwright's replacement's here. Shall I...?"

"Yes, yes, send him in, of course," was the impatient response. The officer entered and strode over to Gardiner's desk.

"Detective Sergeant Sheila Boydeau reporting, sir."

* * *

"No, the _first_ thing I want to do is look at that file you're holding in your hot sweaty hand, sergeant. Give." Boydeau thrust her hand out at Ferguson, who clutched the folder somewhat petulantly to his chest, offended that his offer of a tour of the station had been rebuffed.

"I don't take orders from other sergeants," he retorted. "Come back in a couple of years when you've made inspector..."

"Oh, stop it, you berk," interrupted Boydeau amiably, as she proceeded to grab the file from an astonished Ferguson. She read through it for a few minutes, then said, "Right. So, no sign of these upstanding members of the community who've made allegations against DI Reid, then?"

"No," was the grudging reply. "And they're not exactly model citizens, either..."

"That was sarcasm, DS Ferguson. I'm sure you're familiar with the concept if you've worked with DI Reid for any length of time." She continued to study the file, but was aware of a wry smile that had appeared on Ferguson's face. As she looked up his amused expression was replaced by a stern one. "What has he had to say about the allegations?" she asked.

"Nothing to me, more than my job's worth," shot back Ferguson, and immediately realised how disloyal and mindless he sounded. "What I mean is, the super would have my..."

"Yes, I get the picture," cut in Boydeau. "No need to go into anatomical detail. I take it AC-12 are involved by now?"

Ferguson shrugged. "We've not been told. I haven't seen anyone new around the station, apart from you..." He tailed off, recalling only too well the circumstances around his own arrival at Edmund Street over a year ago.

"Don't hold back, Ferguson, say what you think," said Boydeau absentmindedly, continuing to leaf through the paperwork.

"No, I didn't mean that I thought that you were...never mind." He eyed Boydeau warily. "Are you going to speak to DI Reid yourself?"

"I might. But I don't want to get you into any trouble with the brass, so if you just point me in the right direction..."

"I'll write his address down for you. It's easy to miss, though, so if you find the Blue Lotus Chinese takeaway, his flat's above that."

Boydeau took the piece of paper he handed her and read the address. "Blimey, not the best postcode in Denton, is it? Right. Thanks for that. I'm just off for an 'early lunch', OK?" she said meaningfully, and Ferguson nodded his understanding of her true intentions. Although she hadn't been ordered to steer clear of Reid, it could be expected of her nonetheless. This way, she might get a rocket but Ferguson would avoid any repercussions.

She sighed as she made her way down to the car. Reid hadn't been in touch with her for several weeks now, and in her mind it was not completely outside the realms of possibility that he had fallen off the substance abuse wagon; but she could not, _would _not believe that he was taking backhanders or consorting with drug dealers.

* * *

Reevel Street was about fifteen minutes' drive from the nick, and the Blue Lotus was situated in the parade of shops about halfway along it. Boydeau parked up and sat in the car for a few minutes, psyching herself up for this. She was quite prepared to find Reid a physical and emotional wreck, with or without the methadone. She braced herself and got out, went to the black door with the number 86 on it, and pushed it. She was halfway up the stairs when the door at the top opened.

"I've told you Jovos before, no bloody canvassers," came the familiar gruff voice, muffled by a mug of tea.

It took Sheila a second or two to realise that Reid had seen her coming and was winding her up. He looked much the same as the last time they'd met for lunch, before Christmas, and she wanted to burst into tears, throw her arms round him, and scold him for worrying her so much.

"Hello, you," she said instead, wiping her feet on the doormat.

"Hello yourself. How did you find me?" Reid led the way into the living room, gestured at an armchair – this apparently meant she was to be seated – and continued through into the kitchen to make more tea.

"Your Sergeant Ferguson was very helpful." Sheila arranged the cushion behind her to her satisfaction and when she looked up again, Reid had reappeared and was staring at her.

"You spoke to Ferguson? How did you know he would..."

To her immense gratification, Reid was lost for words. Obviously struggling to put all the normally unrelated pieces of the puzzle together, he continued to stare at her in bewilderment.

"Marcus Wainwright," she said.

"He's on sick leave." Still the penny did not drop.

"And I'm his replacement."

Stunned silence.

"_What?_"

"Last week I saw a temporary vacancy at Edmund Street advertised, so I applied for it. And here I am."

His brain having wrapped itself around the situation, he practically yelled, "You can't be here! You'll be in for twenty different kinds of grief for having any contact with a suspended officer!"

"Rubbish. Why would that be a problem for someone new to the station? And how would I know you were suspended, anyway? I haven't been here five minutes."

"You know bloody well what I mean." Reid had advanced across the living room and was pointing an accusatory finger at her now. "AC-12 could have your warrant card for this."

"Don't worry, I drove around for a bit before I parked the car, there's no-one watching you. And anyway, I'm just here to get your side of things and hear what you think I need to be looking into, whose chain I need to yank to get this sorted. All right?"

Reid calmed down as he processed this. He leaned against the table by the window, glancing down into the street to make sure there really was no surveillance on the flat, and began to relate the events of the past five weeks.


End file.
